


Make-Believe

by absolutelyCancerous (cal1brations)



Series: Misfit Carnival (AU) [6]
Category: Kingdom Hearts
Genre: Abusive Partner, Carnival/Freakshow AU, Dubious Consent, M/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-05
Updated: 2012-12-05
Packaged: 2017-11-20 09:49:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,432
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/584019
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cal1brations/pseuds/absolutelyCancerous
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There's a time for playing pretend, and a time to keep your guard up.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Make-Believe

**Author's Note:**

> [this babe](http://www.fahrenheat451.tumblr.com) came up with the idea of the [AU](http://www.fahrenheat451.tumblr.com/tagged/the-shitty-nameless-carnival), I end up writing junk for it.

"You look  _so_  gorgeous.”

You smile at his voice, whispering so smooth and careful against the shell of your ear. His arm comes to wrap around your waist. You turn over, so that you can face him, get a little bit lost in cyan eyes and those little dimples when he smiles at you, in all the thousands of freckles dusted across his cheeks—little things you can notice even in the dark.

“You weren’t even looking at my face,” you mumble, wiggle up towards him so you’re touching all the way down, front-to-front. Lea sighs, delighted at the feeling, and gives that little roll of his hips against yours, the one that lets you know he’s in for a little more than just snuggling tonight.

He smiles at the closeness, letting his breath ghost against your throat before he begins pressing kisses there, soft and warm and gentle, just the way you like. He smells like ash and grass, and it makes you smile as you pull him closer, tug him over to straddle you.

“You okay?” He asks, every time, without fail. He even makes sure to pull back that little bit, so he can watch your face as you answer, make sure you really are alright with all this.

You smile, try to coax him back down to your throat, “Promise.”

Lea doesn’t ask twice, thank god, and makes quick work of your clothes. His kisses get clumsy, a little hesitant, as both of you manage to wiggle and worm out of your pants, because it’s always a little intimidating to be so… _naked_. But he just pulls back from you, looks you over and laughs quietly, breathlessly.

“You just get hotter every time, huh,” he muses softly, tracing his thumb against the jut of your collarbone. You shiver, jaw hanging agape, and only moan softly in reply, which he takes in good-nature. Generally, Lea spouts a lot of commentary, and it’s usually okay to give him simple answers like that, if any at all.

He rubs at your shoulders, your arms, with incredibly warm and careful hands as he kisses you, languid and open. His tongue tastes a little of blood, and you almost laugh about what you instantly know—chicken blood doesn’t taste very different than human blood, apparently. But his tongue is what brings you back to this wonderful, wonderful feeling of him taking care of you, of him rubbing the day’s soreness from your arms and shoulders and neck, his slow kisses getting a particular rise out of you.

He snorts at the feeling of your cock against the inside of his thigh. “I’ll get to it,” he promises, kissing your jaw a few times, “I’ll take care of you.”

You like how Lea is gentle, maybe not how slow he is, but the way he carefully makes his way to settle between your legs, the way his hands  _never_  touch you in any way but careful, makes your head spin a little.

“What do you want?” He asks, softly, smiling as he rubs those warm hands on your belly, making you shiver and sigh at the lovely feeling. This is another thing he always asks you, no matter what he desires, it’s always about  _you_  and you alone. He treats you much too good.

You smile at him, literally able to feel the blush reaching the tips of your ears. “You.”

Lea grins widely at that, leaning forward to give you a quick kiss. It takes quite a bit of effort, but he manages to hang off the edge of the bed, dig around in his discarded pants pocket to grab a familiar little packet that he tears open with his teeth, and then rolls the prize—one of those new, super nice _latex_ condoms—onto his cock. The fact he even cares about you that much, to waste his wages on condoms for you (hopefully _only_ you, you think greedily) makes you smile, makes your heart hammer that little bit in your chest.

You really, really love him.

He catches your smile, returns it  _tenfold_ , and proceeds to give you another kiss—on the side of your mouth this time. “What’s got you so smiley?” He asks against your cheek, one hand cupping the side of your face he isn’t presently lavishing.

You just smile brighter, pull your arms around him in a tight hug, hoping to convey some bit of your affection for him, boney, loving and all. “I just really love you,” you tell him in a hushed voice, against his shoulder.

Lea chuckles, gathers you close to him as he lies atop you, like it’s the most natural thing in the world. His condom-covered cock presses against your belly, but you’re too delighted, too happy in holding him to care very much.

“You’re so  _gorgeous_ ,” he whispers right up against your ear, and you can feel him smiling. “Let me give you what you need—let me love you.”

His words embarrass you, because he’s a bit silly, but the fact he’s just so  _kind_ , and that he wants to do this for _you_ , that makes you groan and nod quickly in agreement. “Please,” you pant, rocking your hips to rouse his attention, “oh, please.”

And Lea does just that, sinking inside with such self-control you’re surprised he didn’t reach sainthood right then and there. You can feel his arms trembling, his thighs tense as he holds completely still, waits for you to say something, anything. His face screws up, eyebrows drawn tight together, lower lip being bitten on. You can even feel his breathing, quick little breaths that he refuses to let out as long, drawn-out moans.

It’s  _incredible_.

“Love me,” you beg, pulling your arms around him and tilting your head back. “Please— _oh, god_ —please, love me!”

“Love?  _You?_ ”

That’s not Lea’s voice.

That’s not Lea’s face, almost inches from yours, screwed up in the most intense look of disgust you think you’ve ever seen in your entire life—the most disgusted face you’ve ever seen  _Vanitas_  give you. He’s grimacing, looks like He’s debating on spitting on you or slapping you, or worse.

You were pretending. You were pretending and  _you forgot to keep your dumb mouth shut_   while Vanitas crawled over you and worked out His hatred and anger and frustrations.

He decides to go for the latter, and slaps you across the face.

“ _Silencio!_ ” He hisses, voice laced with the thickest venom you’ve ever heard, nonetheless, imagined. He spits out something else foreign, but you don’t have a single idea what it means, so you disregard it. It’s not that it matters much, anyway-- you can safely assume it’s not something you actually need to answer to.

He presses His hand to your throat, and makes sure it’s enough pain to make you suffer, but gives you enough room for air, so you may lie awake under Him as he goes about His deed. It’s nothing like Lea would do, there is no sweetness or condoms or whispered confessions of love. It’s only Vanitas working out whatever so ails Him this evening, thought you don’t know what that could be, either.

He finishes, but not even a brief look of satisfaction crosses his face. You assume it’s because of what you cried out earlier that ruined the entire exchange for Him. You don’t dare to apologize, (you don’t want to risk what He’ll do if you speak now) and simply lie there as you listen to Him gathering His pants and slipping His shoes back on, mumbling things that sound most like foreign disappointment.

He doesn’t bid you goodbye, only slams the door to your wagon as He stomps off. You don’t even bother to gather your clothes from wherever He threw them earlier, when you hadn’t been paying attention, when you had been pretending you were _actually_ loved—what a joke. You simply move onto your side, curl up in the blankets and feel the tears burning at the back of your throat, and trickling across your face to wet the pillow under you. You can’t even please Him; there was no hope for you to ever be a joy to anyone, especially not to Lea.

Lea’s words were not real, and they won’t ever be. The thread of hope inside you sings, tells you to remember that Lea was  _nothing_  like Vanitas, and that you don’t deserve this treatment. 

_You deserve to be loved— **Lea** loved you._

You cry yourself to sleep, wishing that Lea was there to take away the pain.


End file.
